


The Closing of the Day

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, S4 AU, Story: The Adventure of the Devil's Foot, s4 canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: Based on ACD's The Devil's Foot.  I would have liked to have seen the BBC series end something like this.





	The Closing of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Based on ACD's The Devil's Foot. I would have liked to have seen the BBC series end something like this.

It had been a stupid thing to do.He could acknowledge that even as the noxious fumes rose to overwhelm him, as he felt his senses swim and his wits leave him.He’s hallucinated before.He’d had a couple of bad trips in uni.He’d O.D.ed twice.Nothing had ever felt like this, this overwhelming sense of complete confusion, terror, emptiness.It magnifies things, this drug, the worst things you could possibly imagine.It’s beyond fear.It’s complete, overwhelming, gut-wrenching loss, and he’s drowning in it.

John abducted, burned, angry, marrying, leaving, crying, shouting, hitting, kicking, lashing out, over, and over, and over again…

It roughs and jostles him, it wrestles him to the lawn and weighs him down until he is begging for the ground to open up and swallow him whole, to end the never ending cycle of pain that is too much, too enduring.He begs.He begs forces he doesn’t even believe in to let him die, just to let him die, because he can’t anymore.

“Not a fucking chance.”A voice somewhere denies him, and he weeps, he knows he does, at the sheer, inhumane, unfairness of it all.

But that is when it hits him.John.John had been in the room with him.John had breathed the same fumes.John could be…John is…He claws his way out of the murk and mire of his brain, gulps in a great lungful of blessedly clean air, and jolts upward, with John’s name on his lips.

“Christ!You fucking…”John’s face is there, just in front of his, brow knit, eyes watering, cheeks pale.His hands a firm weight on Sherlock’s shoulders, pushing him back against the cool, green lawn.“You’re an idiot.”

Sherlock just blinks, and reaches out blindly, desperate for something undefined.John takes his hands in his.They’re warm.They hold on tight.“You’re okay.You’re a fucking idiot, but you’re okay.Just breathe.”

John is there.Whole.Breathing.Beautiful.Sherlock prises his hands from John’s and reaches up to cup John’s face, to feel the solid, warm presence of him, to stop the trembling, trembling he isn’t sure is coming from John’s body or his own hands. 

John reaches up and lays a hand over one of Sherlock’s, just lets it rest there, over Sherlock’s while Sherlock cradles John’s face like it’s the most precious thing in the world, like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

“It’s okay.I’m okay.We’re both okay.”And John’s voice is soft in a way that Sherlock hasn’t heard in years, not since before he’d left, before everything fell apart between them, and he isn’t sure if John is talking about this, here, the drug, or if he’s talking about the whole of them, everything they are now after losing so much, after almost losing everything.

_It’s okay.He’s okay.They’re both okay._

John’s thumb slides across the back of his hand, and he lifts his other to smooth through Sherlock’s hair.Sherlock’s eyes fall shut.

“Give it a few minutes.Just breathe.”

“I’m sorry…” Sherlock manages, and hopes John knows—not only for this, for everything.

“Good.You should be.”

Sherlock can’t help the twitch of a smile that teases at the corner of his mouth, and he hears John chuckle low, and fond.But when John finally speaks, it’s serious.“You can’t keep doing this.”

Sherlock opens his eyes again, blinks up at the sun shining through the top of John’s hair like a sterling halo, at the heavy bags beneath his eyes, and the greyish pallor to his face, and the deep blue sincerity of his eyes.Life lies on him heavy, like a weight.“I know.I’m sorry.It was a stupid thing to do, and doubly so with you in the room.”

John’s mouth forms into a thin line.He sniffs.“Christ.You—you just don’t get it, do you?”

And Sherlock wants to object, on principal, because he’s Sherlock, and it galls to think that there is anything he doesn’t understand, but he _is_ lost, and so he says nothing.

John shakes his head after a moment, and then struggles to his feet, reaching down to pull Sherlock up along with him.Sherlock follows him to the back garden of the holiday cottage they’re letting in Cornwall.He does as he’s told and sits when John points to the teak bench set up beneath the shade of an old elm.

John disappears inside, returns after a moment or two with the oil diffuser that had been the cause of all their troubles and tosses it violently into a nearby bramble before returning to the house and throwing all the windows wide.

When he does finally return to the garden it is with a steaming mug of tea in one hand, and crocheted blanket draped over one arm.He hands the tea to Sherlock, who takes it, gratefully and without argument.The blanket follows, draped carefully over Sherlock’s still shivering frame, before John finally deposits himself on the bench beside him, close enough that their thighs press together, close enough that Sherlock can feel John’s heat.It’s grounding.

“I’m going to say something, and I’d appreciate it if you kept your mouth shut until I’m done.”

Sherlock glances over at him, but John doesn’t look back.He’s staring out over the lawn toward the cliffs, toward the sea.“Alright.”

John nods, and Sherlock turns his gaze in the same direction, takes another slow sip of tea.

“You know why we’re here, yeah?You know this isn’t just some holiday.”

Sherlock does know.This is John forcing the issue of Sherlock’s health.This is John playing doctor, believing the reports Mycroft no doubt supplied, from a neurologist, and psychiatrist, and a whole litany of other specialists.This is John doing what John does, and perhaps this is also a little bit of John making amends.

“Yes.”

“You seem to think this is all some kind of joke, some sort of game.”Sherlock turns to look at him again, and John meets his gaze for only a moment before turning his attention back to the sea with a tight sniff.“I know you don’t— _feel_ things that way, but some of us do.”

A cool breeze drifts in from the sea, ruffling John’s newly cut fringe away from his still clammy forehead.It settles again, slightly askew, and Sherlock aches to reach out and set it to rights. 

“I do.”John continues, and there is something painfully vulnerable in the way he says it. 

Sherlock shifts his thigh a little, just an extra little press.His head is still swimming, but he’s clear enough to hear John’s pain.“I imagine these things take time.It’s not even been a year since Mary…”

“This isn’t about fucking Mary!”John snaps, and then seems to catch himself.He shudders, and rakes a hand through his hair.“Sorry, I just…”Gentler.“Let me get through this, okay.Please.”

“Yes.Sorry.”

John nods, and stares down at his hands, rubs absently at the white ring of skin where his wedding band had sat until just a few weeks prior.“I can’t lose you again.That’s why we’re here.You’re slipping, and there’s nothing I can do about it, and I—I can’t stop thinking about what would happen if I lost you again. 

“I know I’m not enough.Christ knows I wish I was, but I’m not.But, I’m a doctor at least.I can do that.I can make sure you’re eating, and sleeping, and staying away from the drugs.I can put my fucking foot down about the number of cases. 

“And yeah, you might resent me, and if you do, I’m sorry for that, Sherlock.I really am.But I need you.I need you too much to just let you kill yourself.I spent two years thinking I’d let you kill yourself, and I swore to Mary, Jesus and Joseph, and all the saints that would listen, that if I was just given a second chance, I would never fail you that way again. 

“‘Course then you came back, and I tried to kill you myself.But this is me trying, okay.I’m fucking trying, and I feel like none of it matters to you.Do you care at all, or would you rather I just give up and—let you go?”John’s voice breaks at the last bit, and he turns his head away.

“I’m sorry.”

John sniffs, and lifts the sleeve of his shirt to wipe at his eyes.“Don’t be sorry.Just—take care of yourself.”

“I will.I’ll do better.”

John jerks his head in an acknowledging nod, and Sherlock looks over at him: hunched into himself, muscles taught, fingers gripping the seat of the bench between them, white knuckled. 

He wonders…

He lets his hand slide from the top of his thigh to settle atop John’s hand.John twitches, but he doesn’t pull away.He lets go the iron grip he has the bench.He flexes his hand once beneath the shelter of Sherlock’s own, and then relaxes.

“John…”

“What?”John still can’t look at him, but he’s letting him hold his hand.

“I like it when you take care of me.” 

John’s head snaps around at that.His eyes are red-rimmed, confused, but also filled with something that looks a great deal like hope. 

“I didn’t know.I do now.I’ll do better.I’ll do my best, but—I need you to know that I need you too.”

John’s mouth pops closed, and he swallows dryly, eyes filling.

“I need your little reminders.I need your presence about the flat.I need your courage, and your practicality, your wry humour, your strength, and more than that, John, I need your friendship, your companionship, your fondness and your care.”

A tear spills over to cling to the fringe of John’s bottom lashes for a moment, before breaking free to stream down his cheek.

Sherlock traces his thumb over John’s knuckles, and smiles fondly.“I should have told you.I meant to tell you, so many times, but...After everything I’d blunderingly put you through, I thought it my duty to ensure your happiness.And you were happy with her, so…”

“I wasn’t.”

Sherlock squeezes his hand.“But you wanted to be.”

John’s face crumples, but he doesn’t look away this time.“Yeah.I did.”

Sherlock nods, and gives John a moment to master himself.When he seems to have pulled himself together, he continues.“Quite selfishly, I’m glad you’ve found your way back to Baker Street.It really wasn’t the same without you.”

John puffs out a wet laugh, and Sherlock smiles.“There’s no one there to buy milk, and Mrs. Hudson’s shepherd’s pie is an embarassment.”

John grins.“I’m not your housekeeper, you know.”

“No.You’re a great deal more than that.”He hopes that the seriousness, the fondness of his tone is clear, that John knows that ‘a great deal more’ means: family, companion, anchor, _home_.

So many things pass over John’s face in that moment, that Sherlock is unable to read it at all.After a moment John stares down at their joined hands.He turns his over, so they’re pressed palm-to-palm.He meshes their fingers together.“Yeah it’s—it’s good to be home.”

The afternoon warmth is giving way to evening’s cool.There are nightingales chirping in the copse behind them.John’s fingers stir between his.His arm rests against his.John reaches across to adjust the blanket draped over Sherlock’s shoulders, running a hand down the length of his arm before settling back to stare out into the soft fading of the day.“Mind you drink that tea before it gets cold.”

Sherlock smiles.

He does.


End file.
